Many Partings
by Nightshade Scribe
Summary: Dialogue between father and son after Finwë informs Fëanor of his impending marriage.


**Before you read: when I wrote this story, I was not aware of the slower aging process of the Eldar, and so wrote Fëanor about twice his age. I know better now, but am still too fond of this story to change it.

* * *

**

"Absolutely not."

"Fëanáro, I'm sorry that this is upsetting you, but you hold no say in the matter."

"No say!" Fëanor stopped pacing the room to stare at his father. His face held a mix of fury, disbelief, and anguish. "No say? This is not only your life this woman—"

"Indis. She has a name, and you will refer to her by it."

"I don't care about her _name_! Let her be Ilúvatar for all I care; what I care about is that she'll be replacing _Míriel."_

"She will not be replacing her—"

"Then what, exactly, will she be doing? Warming your bed?"

"_Fëanáro!"_

His father was clearly furious, but Fëanor ignored that. "I only speak the truth."

"Fëanáro, I am willing to hear you out, but not if you speak in such a manner."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Accept this quietly, welcome your Vanya with open arms and call her Amil and babysit any spawn of yours?"

"I do not expect you to see Indis as your mother, but I do expect you to treat her in a civil manner, and should there be any children the same will go for them."

"I treat people with as much respect as they command. It's only because you're my father that I'm even tolerating this conversation."

"Speaking of me being your father, I seem to remember you once saying that all you wanted was for me to be happy again."

"I was a little child at the time. Besides, I had not even considered that you would do something like this. That anybody even _could. _You married Amil, and now you're just going to set her aside? It's betrayal, Atar, pure and simple. A bond like that doesn't end with death. If had a wife and lost her I hardly think I would be so blasé as to simply go on with whatever I was doing and ask the Valar to let me get a new model."

"That is not the case, and you know it. Fëanáro, you have a year to think this over—"

"I don't need to think anything over! I've done more than enough thinking over since you told me of this! Why do you need her anyway? You have an heir. And am I not family enough?"

"However beloved, a son is not a wife, and there are more reasons to wed than descendants. I understand—"

"You understand? Understand what? You didn't even _have_ parents; how could you ever understand what you're doing to me? You're letting my mother be torn out of the picture without a thought, it seems, to her son."

"Your mother will never be out of the picture. And believe me, I thought of you a great deal before I made this decision."

"Did you, then. And even taking into account that maybe, just maybe, Amil would have reversed the choice she made years ago?"

"Do you honestly think that possible?" Finwë had only once before heard his son express the idea that his mother might come back, and that had been as a very young child.

Fëanor turned away. "Anything is possible. You're going to have two wives, aren't you? I would never have thought _that_ possible of anyone with morals."

"Fëanáro, is this even about Indis anymore? Or is it about your mother?"

"You mean, is it about the woman whose pictures and work are all over this house; over whom I used to see you crying when you thought I wasn't there; the woman who I would see you leave every day just to sit with; the mother I never knew being replaced by another woman who never can, never will, and never should."

"Míriel will never be replaced. The reason for this marriage is only that I love Indis—"

"I don't want to hear of it."

"Then you will have to bear it."

"I'll leave this house."

"You are still too young. You do not need to be in Indis's company constantly; you need only accept that she will be living here—" Finwë became aware that his son's attention had transferred from his words to his hand. "Fëanáro?"

"What did you do with it?" he said hoarsely.

"What did I do with what?"

"Your ring. You're wearing a betrothal ring from that woman."

"Yes, I am."

"And what of your wedding ring? _Amil's_ ring?"

"They are secure, I assure you."

"Put away. Yes, I gather that. So are you going to—to just recycle your old wedding ring with a new woman? And will you keep carrying Amil's ring along with that of _Indis_?" He made it sound like a curse.

"I intended neither," Finwë said. "In fact, I meant to offer them to you, if you should so like."

Fëanor extended an open hand. "I would indeed like. So long as you've committed yourself to Indis, you have no reason to possess any symbols of your first marriage."

"Any? Not even my most precious one?"

Fëanor shrugged. "You have made your choice, have you not?"

"Fëanáro, I am referring to _you_. Am I to lose my son?"

Fëanor was silent for a time. Finally he said, "Nothing good can come of this marriage, Atar. Regardless of how irrational the Valar seem to have become. It's unnatural, it's sick—" His voice was rising again.

"It's happening," Finwë said. "And I advise you to accustom yourself to that idea instead of wasting your time venting."

"I'm not venting, I'm protesting! This is wrong, can nobody else see it?" Fëanor slammed his fist into the wall, shaking down a few pieces of what was likely useless bric-a-brac. True, his father had informed him of, and even invited him to the council with the Valar concerning Indis. But even knowing that, even after hearing the verdict, Fëanor still had not thought that Finwë would actually go ahead and marry that—that—there wasn't even a name for it.

It wasn't that he was jealous of Indis; it wasn't that he was unwilling to accept a change in the perfectly acceptable life he had been leading up until now. It was just—the purely despicable nature of the entire thing. The Valar—how could they have agreed to this? Had the entire world gone mad?

"Fëanáro."

Fëanor looked up to see his father holding out a small box. "Your rings?"

"Yes."

Fëanor took the box and opened it. The gold ring he recognized—it was the one he had seen his father wear for as long as he could remember. But next to it lay a silver one, almost tiny in comparison, that he had never seen before. He picked it up and clenched his fist around it, as though trying to feel some trace of her.

But of course, there was nothing.

Fëanor placed the ring back into the box. He looked up at his father and said. "I am going to Lórien. You may have lost all regard for somebody there, but I haven't."

He slipped the box deep into his pocket, slammed the door and was gone.

-_finis-_


End file.
